Meditations on Memoirs​

Growing up, I listened to my grandfather tell his war stories. His airplane had been hit by flak, a shell that exploded into a thousand shards and ripped through the fuselage. Shrapnel struck his leg and left raised scars that I marveled at. Shrapnel ripped apart his copilot’s head.

This is a wild and emotional story. I feel it in my body, a physical response. It really is more of an impression than a narrative brimming with specific details. Whenever I’ve tried to retell this tale of my grandfather in action, it sounds like a lame game of telephone. I can’t make the listener feel the way I felt when Grandpa told it.

This is the difference between a story you hear and a story you read:The details exist forever on the page. You can revisit them. In all the years I listened to Grandpa in awe, I only digested the broad strokes. I was too busy feeling to remember it all. Not until we set his story in writing was I able to more fully absorb the particulars:

Grandpa was in such shock that it was only when the doctor ordered him to down a cup of scotch that he realized a five-inch blade of shrapnel jutted from his leg; rushing to surgery, Grandpa asked that they not notify his mother, but they sent a telegram anyway; Grandpa felt a duty to write a letter to his deceased copilot’s family.

These are only a few of the many important details we captured for his memoir. They help bring the story to life. Let’s get these things written down. They deserve it.